


The Lovers

by JSevick



Series: The Alias Complex [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Jealous Oliver, Not Really That Explicit, Protective Oliver, Undercover felicity, but just in case, but you don't need to know the show to... enjoy, if that's the word, just Oliver really, missions on comms, plot shamelessly stolen from alias, possessive oliver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:57:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4774349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JSevick/pseuds/JSevick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Felicity continues to discover a surprising talent for undercover missions, and Oliver discovers he doesn't like to share.</p><p>Sequel to The Professional</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, here we go, you guys!! The response to The Professional was so amazing, you knew I wasn't going to leave it there! Maybe you'll wish I had. ;)
> 
> This is based on a mission from 4x21 "Search and Rescue"--though I'm playing fast and loose with the details and how it ends.

“I have an idea…”

“No.”

“I haven’t even said it yet!”

“I know that tone, Felicity.”

“The ‘my boyfriend is a caveman jerk who I have to ask for _permission_ to do things, like I’m a little housewife he purchased for two goats’ tone?”

Oliver makes the face that’s somewhere between exasperation and amusement; she’s quite used to it by now. “The tone you use when you know I’m not going to like something. And you don’t have to ask my permission for anything.”

Felicity rolls her eyes. “No, but you get all pissy and grumpy when I do something you ‘disapprove’ of, and yeah, okay, sometimes it’s kind of hot when you get all he-man and ‘grrr’ and stuff—but despite what you think, I don’t actually _like_ it when you’re upset.”

“It’s not that I disapprove… I just want you to be safe.” His tone softens, and she wants to soften with it, but she still stands beside her computers, arms crossed over her chest.

“I just wish you had more faith in me,” she says quietly.

“I do—Felicity, you _know_ I do.” He crosses the platform to her, curling his hands around her elbows. “I trust you more than anyone, and the things you can do… Come on, it’s not about that.”

“But you don’t want me out in the field.”

He sighs heavily. “No, I don’t. Is that so wrong? To want you safe?”

“It’s not _wrong_ , Oliver, it’s just… We have _all_ made a choice to put protecting our city above our own safety.” They’re the only ones in the lair at the moment, the others having all gone home while Felicity runs a last few searches, but they both know who she means. “And that _doesn’t_ mean we take foolish risks or refuse to rely on each other’s help—but it does mean that we trust each other to know our own limits, to ask for help when we _need_ it, and to only take risks when it’s worth something.”

She pulls her arms from his grasp to reach up and cup his jaw, brushing her thumbs across his cheeks. “And I kind of thought we already had this conversation, with Bob Mack and the Alliance? Remember?”

He closes his eyes and leans forward into her hands, almost into a pout, as he grumbles, “I thought that was a one-time thing.”

“But it _worked_ , Oliver—nobody had to fight or kill or get hurt, and we stopped the Alliance before they could even get started.” She scoots closer until he opens his eyes to look down into her face, his hands coming up to her waist. “You could even say I sort of kicked ass—like, the saved-the-city-single-handedly kind of kicked ass.”

Felicity can tell the smile that twists his lips isn’t entirely voluntary.

“You did,” he says softly, earnestly, twisting his chin to press a kiss into her palm. “But if it had-”

“ _No_ ,” she says firmly as she pulls her hands away from his face, might have pulled away entirely if his grip hadn’t tightened around her waist. “If you’re going to start that, you better do it with every mission and stunt you’ve ever pulled, because the only way this whole thing works is if we take the victories when we get them and don’t look back. We _all_ should have been dead a dozen times over.”

When his face crumples into a grimace at that, her tone gentles. “And we came back to this life _knowing_ that, Oliver. We made a decision, _together_ , that what we do is more important.”

He tilts forward until his forehead rests against hers. “You’re the most important thing in my life,” he murmurs.

“I’m going to bypass the ‘thing’ aspect of that, because I know that’s not what you meant,” she says, slightly teasing, twisting her face against his to press a kiss against the side of his nose. “And Oliver, you… In so many ways, you _are_ my life.” She curls her hands into the fabric of his shirt, holding him to her. “You brought me into this because I’m smart—so trust me to be smart about _this_ , too.”

They lose a few minutes in each other, in heated breaths scattered over each other’s lips, before the urgent ringing of her computers tears them reluctantly apart. It’s just the searches finishing, and unsuccessfully at that, but after making sure, Felicity turns and finds Oliver looking at her thoughtfully.

“Okay, let’s hear this idea,” he says. “And I suppose if we do this and it works, then I can’t say no ever again.” Something about that didn’t come out right, because he frowns and shakes his head. “I don’t want it to be like that between us, I just…”

Whenever he starts speaking in fragments, she can’t help taking pity on him. She knows exactly what it’s like, to have the traffic jam of possible words stuck just behind your teeth until they all come out in a jumble—or don’t come out at all.

“How about this?” she says, smiling at him, maybe returning that same adoringly amused look he sends her way so often. “You will trust me that I have given any ideas I offer serious thought, from _all_ angles, including objectively looking at my safety and the risks versus the potential benefits—and in return, I will trust you that when you say it’s not safe, and you _give me real reasons_ , that you know what you’re talking about, and it’s not just overprotective boyfriend mode, and then we’ll take it off the table and find another way.”

The look he sends her is awe and gratitude and heat and love… She wants to live in that look forever, and her stomach does a giddy little leap that she... just might.  

Then Oliver nods, smiling wryly, and says, “Okay. I don’t even know why I argue with you.”

“I don’t, either. Maybe you should stop doing it.”

“So what’s the plan?” he asks, shaking his head with a grin.

“I think you might actually like this one—well, sort of. Okay, not really, but it’s better than the last one, I’m pretty sure. In some ways, at least-”

“Felicity.”

“Right. Lucian Moussard,” she says, sitting down in the chair beside her computers and spinning around to pull up the dossier on the man. “We’re almost certain he’s the only one who knows where Elena Derevko is.” The terrorist they’d been tracking since she supposedly arrived in Star City—and then promptly disappeared.

“Okay,” he says slowly, his tone going slightly cagey. She imagines he’s remembering Bob Mack and envisioning a repeat event; she decides not to remind him again how well that worked, and if that _was_ the plan, he’d have to just… No, this has to go both ways, and it won’t work if she keeps putting him through that—and she can admit she’d be a little unsure about him going around playing gigolo to a bunch of criminal ladies, so she doesn’t blame him.

“I have been running searches on him, hacking his e-mails and private servers, and… _nothing_. No communications, no schematics, no travel plans, nothing. Which might mean he doesn’t know where she is, of course—but there have been some suspicious communications with others _about_ Derevko, and I think there’s still something here.” She pulls up a picture of him talking on his phone. “And _this_ phone, I haven’t been able to crack. At all. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have any sort of wifi connectivity, and I mean, in this decade? But it might have it all—not to mention getting him to just tell us.”

“So we have to get the phone, right?”

“Well, yes—but it might have nothing, or something in code, so, you know, _talking_ to him would be better.”

“And I presume this plan is more involved than the Green Arrow just showing up in his house.”

“That’s one way, and if it’s the only way, we’ll deal with that,” she says, seriously, to show him that she meant what she said earlier. “But I have an idea for another way.”

Her fingers fly over the keyboards, and she’s not sure how much to show him exactly. “So I’ve been eyeball deep in his hard drives for a week now—and ‘eyeball deep’ is exactly the right phrase, because I’m about to gouge mine out myself.” The screen shows a checkerboard of thumbnails, most fuzzy and dimly lit but the tangles of limbs are unmistakable. _Many_ limbs.

Oliver’s eyebrows have risen, and Felicity decides not to scrutinize any part of that expression, because even while they’ve just started exploring a more adventurous side to their love life, there are some things she’s not ready to know her boyfriend’s into. Not that he’s into it; when she finally does really look at him, he looks more warily confused than intrigued.

And worried—because he might be guessing what she’s getting at.

“He frequents this shady little club on the edge of town called Ibiza, and it’s maybe the only time he lessens his security,” she says, pulling up the minimalist website of the club itself. “So I thought if we could get him alone there, we could grab the phone and ‘talk’ to him. You know, a little blackmail, a little messing with his accounts, a little… Hood special?”

“‘We?’” Oliver asks, frowning, and she realizes he didn’t fully understand what she was showing him.

“He likes, um, couples,” she says. “Group activities. Team sports.”

“So… _we_ …”

“I mean, just enough to get him alone, in the bathroom or whatever, I don’t know what people do there exactly,” she says. “Away from his guards, in and out—okay, _horrible_  choice of words, because _so not,_ but you get the idea. Right? And you’d be there this time, so…”

“I…” He looks stunned—or rather, his face has gone blank.

Sensing he might be leaping ahead and imagining his masculinity being seriously challenged, Felicity stands up from her chair and holds out her hands. “Look, he mostly likes to watch. And if he does get involved, it’s with the girl—in the, like, few seconds I watched of his videos—I thought maybe it would have a clue to Elena, but I just couldn’t do it. But yeah… it means that _I_ might have to, you know, and I realize you’ll hate that—but this time you’ll be right there.” She winces. “Is that worse?”

He expels a long breath, and she can’t even begin to guess what’s going on behind the stern lines of his face.

“Worse than sitting in a car a block away, watching and listening to a man fondle you while a hundred heavily armed guards stand between me and him?” Oliver says, voice bitter with memory, and she tells herself _again_ that putting him through that _cannot_ be a regular occurrence, no matter how well it worked. “No, it is not worse. But watching another man touch you right in front of me?” He makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh.

“You know I don’t want him to, right? The only one I want touching me is you, but if this could make things easier...”

“Of course I know that—but it doesn’t make it better, Felicity.” He snags her hands and pulls her into him, until his arms are wrapped around her and she’s looking right up into his face. “You told me last time that if I treated you like property, I’d be out on my ass, basically. So I’m not going to do that.”

Felicity reaches around with both hands to grab hold of his wonderfully firm rear end, loving the startled jerk of his hips against hers, the immediate huskiness to his breathing. “Good answer—I’d like to keep this ass right here by me, if you don’t mind.”

“Then we’re going to do this…” he says, his voice gone deep, edged with resignation.

“It will be easy,” she says softly. “I think I might really get the hang of this undercover thing.”

He grunts unhappily, and she tips up onto her toes to swallow that grunt against her lips, drawing him into her so he can lose himself in her, in _them_.

As they stumble back against the desk, with her tugging apart the buttons on his shirt while trying not to rip them, his hands preoccupied with reaching down to the hem of her dress, Felicity tries to soothe away his fear, his worry, his jealousy. Only he can have her blood heating, her breaths panting, her skin tingling—with nothing more than a look. Nothing anyone else could do would ever change that, and as she slides her fingers around the back of his neck to tug him down to her, she’s determined to prove it.

He takes off her glasses and tosses them gently onto the seat of the chair, because the edge of the desk is about to be a precarious place, but she can see him clearly enough when he pauses just before entering her. The searing tenderness in those sharp blue eyes has her heart pounding for reasons deeper than the rough grasp of his hands on her thighs or the liquid heat throbbing through her.

Because somewhere along the way, she gave him her soul, and she sees it there reflected in his eyes.

Which is why it’s ridiculous for him to worry about such inconsequential, surface-level jealousy.

He already owns all of her.

XXXXX

“Aren’t you worried about being recognized?” Thea asks, when the black SUV pulls up in front of the club. “Oliver Queen and CEO Felicity Smoak hitting some shady club—let alone disappearing with some old pervert—is bound to get some attention.”

“The clientele of this club isn’t really the type to follow the society pages,” Felicity answers, as she taps the screen of her tablet. “And with the dark lighting and distractions, I don’t think we’ll attract much attention—but just in case, I’m jamming the cell phone frequencies in the vicinity and monitoring our mentions. For the most part, though, I think no one in there wants to admit they’ve been here just to rat someone else out.”

“Classy,” Thea says flatly.

Diggle is handing them their comms, which he insisted on using even though Oliver will be in there with her. There is a guard standing beneath the streetlight, arms crossed in front of him, one of Moussard’s. It means he’s here.

“Call us and we’ll find a way in,” he says, nodding towards the helmet sitting on the seat beside him, towards Thea’s red leather. Laurel is dealing with Sara and her dad, so it’s just the two of them left behind in the car… to listen to Oliver and Felicity try and attract the old pervert in question.

One thing Felicity can say about this life is that it’s never boring.

“Ready?” Oliver murmurs in her ear, hand on the door handle.

“Are you?” she asks back quietly. Her contacts are in, her hair down and messy over bare shoulders, a thin halter strap holding up her short, fluttery dress above spiky heels.

His eyebrows twitch together into a small frown, but he nods. The grim determination and focus of a mission settles over his shoulders, and he opens the door, taking her hand within his grasp to pull her out into the street after him. He’s in a simple button down shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, over dark jeans. Casual enough to go without noticing, except for the muscular forearms and breadth of his back. Felicity trots beside him across the street, holding his hand in both of hers, feeling the scattering of butterflies through her stomach.

At least this time he’s right there with her, hand squeezing back around her own, making her feel safe even as they pass the guard with the gun clipped to his belt.

Inside the club, that smells like smoke and booze and heavy perfume, the dazed, writhing crowd fills the shadowy corners and lines the dimly glowing tables. Bright streaks of color flash through the hazy darkness from strobe lights or spotlights catching the sequins on tiny, revealing dresses. Arms rise and fall to the pounding rhythm of the music, torsos plastered together, hands sliding around hips that sway as one in a suggestive pulse.

“Don’t look so angry,” Felicity says as they pause on the edge of the crowd, looking up at the chiseled lines of his face as he takes in the room. She wants to say it quietly, but has to reach up on tiptoes and balance on his shoulder to speak right into his ear. “You just arrived in a shady club, presumably to have fun, you know, with me.”

Oliver turns abruptly towards her, hands closing around her waist to hold her entire body against his. Her arms curl behind his neck automatically, her face inches from his, as she tries to parse the look on his face.

One side of his mouth quirks up sardonically. “There was a time I was good at this,” he says, and she knows he doesn’t mean undercover missions.

Then his hands on her hips pull her in against him, and she can feel his body swaying—he’s _dancing_. Granted, it’s the slow, simple man-sway, but it’s on rhythm with the beat and it's… really hot. Caged in the hard strength of his arms, legs tangled between them, the shifting of the muscles in his torso as he rocks against her, it reminds her of… other things. Which it’s meant to, she knows.

And Oliver is very good at… other things.

He tilts his head forward to skim his lips across the shell of her ear, the one without the comm, and whispers with a tingle of hot breath, “Blending in, right?”

When he pulls back, nose sliding briefly across her own, part of her wants to forget the mission entirely and just stay in this little moment with him. Where they’re just a normal couple, out late being irresponsible and indulging in each other, no greater cause to worry about than making rent.

They had a taste of it during their summer together—which they left behind for good reasons. Because their mission, as much as it has taken from them, has also given them so much, including each other. And Felicity doesn’t regret any of it.

But it’s hard to resist the urge to get lost in Oliver and his body and the heat in his eyes… especially because this kind of feels like role-playing with Ollie Queen, which should _not_ be hot since there’s a reason she fell in love with Oliver and not Ollie… and yet it is. In the same way that role-playing with the Bratva Captain only made her love Oliver more for who he was, while reveling in the _possibilities_.

They could just keep dancing and hope Moussard will find them, but in the slightly chaotic crowd and the overstimulating surroundings, there’s no way to know they can attract his attention.

“We need to find Moussard,” she whispers, as though to break her own spell. He lifts his head to look around, but she tugs it back down. “Here, flip me around and I’ll look—less obvious. I mean, not that you’re obvious, you know what you’re doing… obviously.”

He doesn’t argue as she spins in his arms, nestling back into his hips, and she can tell he likes this position even better by the hitch in his breathing. His hands slide over her stomach, warm through the thin jersey knit of her dress, holding her shifting hips against him. Felicity tries to focus, looking around the club as her head thumps back against his shoulder.

The man standing at the bar, nursing a short brown drink that’s probably whiskey, isn’t all that old or unattractive in person. Lucian Moussard has dark black hair, and a thin moustache over a narrow mouth, beneath sharp eyes, and he looks a little like Timothy Dalton. When he scans the room slowly, he does see her through the crowd, as she dances with one arm reached up to loop back behind Oliver’s head. But his gaze continues past after a moment.

Oliver seems to be oblivious, his head bowed forward to slide kisses beneath her ear and down her throat, which at any other time, _hell yes_ , but right now needs to stop.

Felicity twists around, taking his face in her hands so she can look like she’s tugging him down into a kiss, while she puts her lips to his ear. “See him? Over by the bar, beneath the yellow light.”

She can feel the moment he sees him because he tenses beneath her hands.

“So what’s the plan?” Oliver asks her, and she remembers that this is, in fact, _her_ plan.

And now comes the hard part… She’s lucky she didn’t say that out loud.

“We have to, you know, attract him—his attention, I guess,” she says. With a grimace, she thinks back to the videos, the little she saw of them at least. “I think he likes it rough.”

“Rough?” Oliver says, frowning with a small tilt of his head.

“I _know_ you know what I mean—maybe a little like that thing we tried with the-”

“You guys, _seriously_ ,” Thea’s voice sounds sharply in their ears, as Digg snorts in the background. “ _Comms_.”

Oliver’s smirk is a little smug as he tugs her closer. “I know what it means, I’m just not sure about this… context.”

“Oh,” she says, and once again she calls up the grainy, poorly lit footage. “I think, um, me. You know, being rough with… you—or him, I guess— _no,_ you, just you.” She adds the clarification when his eyes darken. “Is that… okay?”

They’ve never really done that before. She’s taken control, sure, but she mostly uses the opportunity to luxuriate in touching him and smoothing the crease from between his eyebrows until he’s smiling—not ordering him around and shoving him into walls. But there’s something about him _letting_ her do that (since, as big as he is, she knows he’d have to _let_ her) that does spark a flash of heat within her.

And by the intense look in his eyes as his hands clench tightly into the fabric at her waist, he feels the same.

“Yes,” he says simply, voice deep and slightly rough, and Thea is muttering something in her ear but Felicity isn’t paying attention.

“Alright,” she says, a bit shakily, though she doesn’t move and can’t really meet that intent stare of his anymore. “Um, I guess I’ll just, uh, shove you, then. Into the bar next to him. And then I could, um-”

“Felicity,” he says, and when she’s finally brave enough to look at him, he’s smiling. “You don’t have to tell me. I trust you.”

“ _Please God, do not narrate_ ,” Thea groans over the comms.

“Okay,” she says, her voice so soft she’s pretty sure he can’t hear her over the music. She takes a deep breath, then thinks of something. “Before we do this—Oliver, we have to get him to _follow_ us. So we have to, you know, _entice_ him, or whatever. You can’t get all Arrow-face on him.”

“I know,” he grumbles.

“No matter _what_.”

“I don’t know if I can promise that,” he says darkly. “But I will try.”

She turns to lead him towards the bar, but before she can take a step, he’s hauling her back against him and lifting his hands to cradle her head, tilting her back into a passionate kiss that burns through her. The rasp of his stubbled chin against her own, the barely restrained strength in his arms gone gentle around her, the way he _inhales_ her as he pulls away…

Only to turn her head and growl into her comm-free ear, “ _Mine_. Remember that.”

“Um, well, yes, good point, obviously,” she mutters senselessly as he pulls away. Her modern sensibilities chafe at this possessive side of him…

The less evolved parts of her have melted into throbbing heat.

“Remember that when you _speak_ , even into the ears without comms, we can _still hear you_ ,” Thea says, and Felicity can hear the eye-rolling in her tone as she turns to Digg to say, “Why did we ever think this was a good idea?”

Releasing a small breath of nerves, Felicity grabs Oliver’s wrist and turns, leading him through the jostling, thrashing crowd towards the bar. Moussard is still standing there, looking out at the crowd, eyes narrowed in prurient interest.

When they’re near, Felicity spins back to him, sharing one searing moment of eye contact, before yanking his arm forward and propelling him into the bar.

Oliver’s back lands hard against the edge of the bar as he grunts, but she’s already following him there, lunging to plaster herself against him and grip the collar of his shirt tightly in her hands. She has to pull him down to her so she can kiss him, tugging his bottom lip between her teeth, and the startled breath he expels into her mouth scorches like smoke. Especially when she bites down, and he jerks against her, a stunned sound rumbling through his throat.

Then she pulls back, releasing his shirt so he collapses back a little limply onto his elbows against the bar, and she looks over to see Moussard staring at them. She bites her lip—mostly to keep it from quivering with nerves—and smiles at him, trying to pour all the heat she can into her eyes.

Meanwhile, Oliver is leaning back, having to clear his throat before asking roughly for water from the bartender.

“Hi,” she says, going for as suggestive as she can manage with one word—and _holding_ herself to one, goddamnit—as Moussard smiles crookedly and nods at her in a wordless greeting.

Knowing she will mess this up if she says anything to him, because who knows what she would ramble about at this moment—she turns back to Oliver and slips one hand beneath the clasp of his jeans to yank his hips against hers. He huffs out a sound that’s part-aroused, part-surprised, and possibly part-irritated by the indignity of this moment.  

“Bite me,” she says, firmly if a bit breathily, still having to stare up at him. For a moment, his eyes search hers, weighing the limits of what she’s asking, before he leans forward to sink his teeth into the side of her neck. She moans and rubs her entire body against him, letting her head fall back and giving Moussard another glance.

The look he’s sending back is equally encouraging and creepy.

Oliver’s tongue darts out to smooth over the teeth marks on her throat, and her fingers curl into his bicep on the side facing away from Moussard. Then she uses her grasp to push him back, before leaning up to press kisses into the base of his throat, edging along his collarbone.

He takes the opportunity to drink some of the water he’s ordered, and ideally give Moussard a glance that isn’t entirely unwelcoming… When she pulls away to look, she sees him raising his eyebrows and smirking in the classic male-bonding expression of a triumphant conquest. And then he’s turning back to her, eyes asking what’s next.

There’s little more they can do now other than ask him outright, which would probably make him suspicious. So she leads Oliver away, back into the crowd, and throws a last lingering gaze back over her shoulder. Moussard is watching her walk away with a look in his eyes that has her stomach trembling unpleasantly, but it’s a good sign.

“Oh, here,” she says, seeing an open couch in Moussard’s line of sight.

With her hands braced on his shoulders, she throws Oliver onto the couch, crawling onto his lap. His hands automatically come up to grasp the hem of her dress, keeping it from riding up too high over her hips, as she kneels over him.

“You okay?” he murmurs, lifting one hand from her thigh to stroke his thumb across the mark on her neck.

“Are you?” she asks back.

She leans forward to press her forehead against his, which should look to Moussard standing across the room behind Oliver’s head like they’re continuing their makeout session. But the curtain of her hair falling around their faces quiets the world around them for the moment, and it’s just them.

Oliver sighs. “This is a very… confusing experience,” he says, and the way he’s shifting in his jeans portrays a _very_ vivid image of his exact situation.

She kisses him gently, aiming for comfort rather than worsening his… _dis_ comfort, because they still have a delicate mission to focus on. His hand is whisper soft as it slides along her jaw.

“Did you get him?” Digg asks in their ear, bringing them back to the moment.

“Not yet,” Felicity replies, and she reluctantly pulls away from Oliver to peer over his shoulder.

Moussard is still watching them, and Felicity attempts her most seductive look through the veil of her hair. When his lips twitch, she holds out one finger and curls it towards herself, summoning him in the most obvious way possible.

He sets the glass in his hand down on the bar and starts walking towards them.

“Okay, he’s coming, he’s coming,” she says urgently, then closes her eyes. “Why aren’t there two different words for two very different things? I mean, seriously.”

She’s spared from paying too much attention to the responses through the comms by Moussard stopping to stand behind the couch. Oliver’s slightly tense beneath her, hands twitching against her thighs.

“ _Bonsoir_ ,” Moussard says, one half of his lips twisting up into a leer. “You two are enjoying yourselves.”

“And you’re French,” she says bluntly (and senselessly, because of course she already knew that, as does he). “Which is, you know, hot. I mean, French people are hot. Which you are.”

Oliver’s hand squeezes her hip, and she stops to take a breath.

“I could pay you the same compliment,” Moussard says smoothly.

Felicity swallows past the nerves churning in her stomach, then looks down at Oliver and says, in a slightly demanding tone, “I like him.”

She can feel Oliver take a breath as well, before he leans back and gives Moussard a look, then replies in a calm tone, “Alright.”

“So, did you want to, um…” Felicity’s mind races, and she’s trying to control her urge to babble while sounding sexy and in control, all at the same time, and the pitch of her voice is rising as she rapidly finishes, “you know, do something? I mean, do _us_ — _I mean_ , do… something with us?”

Oliver is pinching his lips between his teeth, clearly struggling not to react. Thea is cackling in her ear, while she can practically _hear_ Diggle shaking his head with his hand over his face.

“What exactly did you have in mind?” Moussard asks, raising his eyebrows, apparently unfazed by this. That bodes well for her.

“Well, um, maybe there’s somewhere we could go to, like… you know,” she says, words fading both from the meltdown in her brain and from Moussard’s hand reaching out to brush the hair back from her face, curling it back behind her ear.

“You are a contradiction, my dear,” he says. “I think there is much we could enjoy together.” And then his hand slides along her jaw to trace her bottom lip, and she’s trying desperately to act like she’s into this—she should bite him or something, right?

But Oliver stands abruptly, lifting her with him and away from Moussard’s hand. He sets her down gently, as Moussard stumbles back a step, and then Oliver is turning with a blankly polite look on his face.

“Let’s find somewhere private,” he says flatly, the smile on his face razor sharp at the edges, taking Felicity’s hand and leading her towards the bathrooms.

With an uncertain smile on her own face, she beckons for Moussard to follow, determined not to let Oliver ruin everything. But she knows, in the tightness of his grip around her wrist and the heavy breath he expels through his nose, he just wants this over with.

And really, that wasn’t that bad. If he would have been in the room with Bob Mack, he would have killed him.

“Your man is very… determined,” Moussard says as he catches up to where she trails behind Oliver.

“He does what I say,” she says, partly as sexy banter and partly as a firm reminder.

Because it’s about to get worse.

Once inside the bathroom, which is lined with light green cement blocks and a flickering flourescent light overhead, Felicity extracts her hand from Oliver’s grasp to push Moussard against the wall with both hands. She looks back over her shoulder at Oliver, who’s glaring back in a look that could _just_ _barely_ (if she’s being generous) be seen as heated rather than hostile, his broad shoulders lifting with his heavy breaths.

“Check the stalls,” she says, reminding him of their mission, while Moussard thinks she’s clearing the way for whatever little orgy he’s imagining.

Moussard’s hands snag around her waist, more narrow and sweaty than Oliver’s, and in squirming involuntarily away from them she finds herself plastered further against his chest. But this ruse only has to last a few more moments, so she smiles tightly up at him and grasps his face in her hands.

“Is he going to join us, or just observe?” he asks, purring the last word as Oliver turns from the row of stalls and stops a foot away, hands clenched together in front of him.

“I’ll watch,” Oliver says blankly.

Moussard smirks down at her, and she has to keep from looking back at Oliver as she glides her hands sinuously down his chest, turning her face abruptly to the side as Moussard leans in to try and kiss her. Instead, his lips—topped with a bristly moustache that is _nothing_ like Oliver’s facial hair, sharp and poking rather than lightly scratching—brush across her cheek, and Oliver releases a loud breath.

Or maybe that’s because Moussard’s hands are slithering down her back, and she can hear Oliver shift forward a step.

But her hands have already skimmed down the sides of Moussard’s waist to find the phone in his pocket, and she yanks it out with a quick motion—

Not quick enough, though, as Moussard grabs her wrist so roughly she gasps.

Then Oliver is lunging forward, arm outstretched to flatten Moussard back against the wall with one hand, so roughly that Moussard’s skull thuds against the cement and he lets go of her with a curse. Felicity quickly staggers back, out of reach, as Oliver’s hand clasps a handful of Moussard’s shirt to hold him there.

“All this trouble just to rob me?” Moussard says, still slick and possibly aroused. Then he confirms the latter by adding, in a slimy tone, “I would have paid handsomely.”

“Shut up,” Oliver says roughly, jerking him back against the wall.

“I’m transmitting,” Felicity says through the comms, fingers flying across the screen of the phone. Now she’s back in her element, numbers and code and files…

None of which try to grope her. Or, to be fair, that she has to grope in turn.

“Unless you count my sweet, sweet hacking skills as groping,” she mutters to herself. “Which I do. Come on, give it to me, little phone.”

“What are you doing?” Moussard now begins to struggle against Oliver’s hold, starting to realize that they aren’t common thieves—or his night’s entertainment.

“Okay, ask him,” Felicity says, even though the phone is giving her more than she could have imagined. There’s more than just Elena Derevko’s secrets in Moussard’s phone; there might be access keys to the entire Helix network here, and Felicity feels the flood of victorious adrenaline cleanse away the filth of this mission.

She just might get addicted to this.

“Where is Elena Derevko?” Oliver asks him, and Moussard gapes at him.

“You’re looking for Elena?” he asks.

“No—we _found_ Elena,” Felicity says, grinning over the screen. “Digg, are you seeing this?”

“We got it, Felicity,” Diggle says in her ear. There are schematics for a secret bunker beneath a warehouse completely unconnected to Moussard or anyone they know, but it’s furnished as an apartment and there are notes about Elena Derevko’s specific requests—as well as entry codes, security protocols, her _personal schedule_ … everything.

It… worked. They never would have found her without this.

“It’s done—we’ve got her,” she tells Oliver, reminding herself not to say his name. But she does look at Moussard and adds, “I’m sure this won’t matter since your entire organization is about to go down, but tell _anyone_ about this, any of this, and we will find you… again. I’ve got access to all your accounts now, and I know everyone who you’ve betrayed. And filmed in compromising positions. Like, really compromising positions, I mean, even with an open mind for people to do what they want, there are just some things-”

“You… you little _bitch_ ,” Moussard hisses.

The sound Oliver makes is a laugh, but it’s harsh and wry. And then he punches Moussard across the face, the smacking sound of the hit making her worry he broke the man’s jaw, as Moussard tumbles bonelessly to the dirty floor. A bit of blood trickles from his nose.

“Okay, well that’s one way to deal with him—probably the best way,” Felicity says. “We did it, Oliver.”

But he isn’t turning to her just yet, his shoulders heaving with deep breaths.

To her, this was a resounding victory, and she didn’t even have to do that much—not like Bob Mack buried in her cleavage. That said, Oliver hadn’t been forced to stand a foot away and just _watch_ that.

Then he’s spinning around rapidly, closing in on her like a summer storm, fast and hot and falling over her in a deluge. His hands grab her shoulders first, tugging her in against him as they stumble back against the edge of the sink counter. And then they slide down her back, reclaiming the path Moussard’s hands took, until they settle around the curves of her ass and tighten almost painfully into her muscles.

His lips, meanwhile, are ravishing her mouth, tongue brushing across her own. When he sucks her bottom lip between his teeth, she expects him to bite her in payback, but the scrape of his teeth is a gentle nip before he releases her to trail wet kisses down her neck.

Felicity gasps for air, unable to help the moan escaping her as she clings helplessly to his shoulders, Oliver growling against her cheek.

“Ollie, for the love of _God_ , will you stop making those noises in my ear?” Thea is nearly shouting. “How would you like it if I did this to you?”

“I second that,” Felicity says breathlessly. “I mean, not the stop making noises thing, you can make sex noises in _my_ ear all you want, later—but, you know, _later_. Not in a dirty club bathroom with an unconscious pervert criminal on the floor.”

“And your baby sister _listening_ ,” Thea says with an exasperated sigh. “Next time, _turn off your comms_. Immediately. Five minutes ago. You belong in that club, you’re as perverted as all of them.”

Oliver finally settles with his forehead tenderly pressed against hers, his eyes closed as he breathes, and when he opens them inches from her own, that soft affection is filling them again. It may be a little more desperate than usual, but he gives her a last, soft kiss and disentangles himself from her entirely.

When she takes his hand, their fingers intertwine and he leads them out of the room, leaving Moussard behind to take rattling breaths through his bruised face.

Felicity doesn’t gloat, or remind him of the easy, bloodless victory, even when he and Diggle are distracted by discussions of how to take down Helix using the intel from _her_ bold reconnaissance mission. She just sits quietly beside him, letting him hold her hand.

And she lets him take control, when they get home, when she allows the caveman urges in him to claim her body like a bounty.

But she remembers the spike of heat that shivered through her at the idea of taking control herself—and the scorching look in his eyes at the thought.

Because as much as she is his… This powerful, overwhelming, challenging man?

Is _hers_.  

**Author's Note:**

> At this point, I'm not planning a follow-up to this specifically, but I said that last time and you got ch. 2, the smutfest. So... you never know? 
> 
> And I'd like to do more Alias-inspired fics, so we'll see about that too. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!!


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